


Bad Days

by Cobalt_Sniper



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, suicide ideation, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:22:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobalt_Sniper/pseuds/Cobalt_Sniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days are good.<br/>Some days are unbearable.</p>
<p>Just a vent fic to get some thoughts out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Days

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning, this isn't a happy work. It deals with a lot of emotions I don't like thinking about, and will probably go into really bad territory. No update schedule, they happen when they happen.

Your parents never throw out pills.

Medicine is expensive, they say. _We wasted it on you, they don't_.

You line them up on the marble counter, next to the basket of boxes and bottles. You read the labels with half-lidded eyes, remember what medicine is to you.

Amoxicillin is a rash that covers every inch of your skin with itchy heat. It's pain and embarrassment and your first brush with dysmorphia. It's the oldest offender, the first time you thought something might be wrong that a pill couldn't fix.

Sertraline is anxiety, keeping you awake until three in the morning. It's more nervous energy than you know what to do with, ricocheting off the walls of your tiny cluttered bedroom. It's the worry that maybe you're not broken, maybe this is how you're meant to be for the rest of your life.

Circadin is a promise twice broken. It's noise where there should be silence, silence where there should be noise. It's the lie you tell people when they ask about the bags under your eyes. It's whispered words in total darkness, the painful truth that you're not getting better.

Escitalopram is sickening nausea, worse than you've ever felt before. It's a pounding headache that leaves you in bed all afternoon with no motivation, unable to deal with your friends or your work. It's bubbly happiness that leaves you feeling wrong in the head, and a desperate need to cry your eyes out.

Paracetamol is the answer to a question you never asked. It's desperate glances from people who don't understand what you feel. It's quiet exasperation, the second-hand disappointment you feel when their kind words and glasses of water aren't enough. It's the fate you've resigned yourself to, painful days and lonely nights where nothing's enough.

They are all toxic. You pollute yourself with them, give them your brain and your heart, let them pick apart your chemistry and change who you are. You take the pills and drink the syrups and dirty your veins with second-hand normality and mass-produced happiness.

_You tell nobody what you think, just shut up and take your medicine._

It hits you one day when you ration out your daily meds that overdose is far too simple. Fill one hand, then the other. Fill your mouth, then your stomach, then your veins. Bathe in the chemicals until they take you, boil your blood and drown your mind and stop your heart.

_You run the shower painfully hot that day, scrub at your skin until it's raw, keep your eyes closed and your heart open, promise yourself to never think those thoughts again._

_It happens again tomorrow._

 


End file.
